Bad Advice from my Therapist

I blame my therapist.

Therapists are a bit like God; they tell you to do things not because they think it might end well for you, it might, but because it will help you grow.

My therapist told me back in November, "Speak truth to power." This is a theme in my life that I have struggled with, power likes to step firmly on my face and squish me. I have spent the last five years in therapy trying to recover from the impacts of power on my squished self and learning to speak up. So, she certainly saw this as an opportunity for me to grow. I admit, I misunderstood her advice. 

I wish she had said, "This is an opportunity for you to practice speaking truth to power. It may be a disaster, but it will be good practice." 

If she had said that, I would have certainly kept my mouth shut. Instead, I left therapy thinking I was a great leader for the marginalized and that my voice would lead to great change. 

You are probably reading this thinking, "Wait, you - a little white woman living in Colorado think you will be the voice for the oppressed? Are you high?"

I am not high, and I wasn't even high then. I really thought, "Here is my chance!"

So, I spoke my truth to power - several times, actually. It was a total disaster. My therapist will likely say when I see her next, "Great job in taking risks, Deanna. Now, how can we put your life back together?"

I will squirm on her very comfortable couch and inspect for the millionth time the painting of an orchid on her wall and twirl my hair grasping for an answer. I am pretty sure I have to quit my profession and go into hiding. I am pretty sure she won't allow me to do that. My speaking-truth-to-power saga is a long and boring story with a bad ending, so I will spare you the details. 

Instead, I will tell you about a great book I have been reading. When I got my ass handed to me on the second to last day of school and sat in a stupor as students ran around the school in total mayhem, I picked up Braiding Sweetgrass. I am pretty sure Robin Wall Kimmerer wrote the book for me. It is dedicated to someone else, but that is because she and I haven't yet met. 

In the chapter titled, 'The Sacred and the Superfund,' Kimmerer writes about how losing gratitude for the world led to the loss of peace for her people. She connects this to her own modern experiences with the Superfund sites on the shores of Onondaga Lake. Kimmerer writes about the law suit from the Onondaga People to clean up the lake, and the loss of this law suit. She says, "In the face of blind injustice, how do we continue? How do we live our responsibility for healing?"

Kimmerer explains, "But is is not enough to weep for our lost landscapes: we have to put our hands in the earth to make ourselves whole again. Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift."

I am deeply humbled by these words. Humbled because I have spent my life wandering about without the injustices faced by so many people around me. Adversity has popped its ugly head up in my life, but not in the way so many others have had to face it. I stood up for the first time this year in a very small situation. It was my way of saying, "You shall not pass!" But pass they did. And I have stood in disbelief at the blind injustice, stammering, "But I said, no. Didn't you hear me?"

Bitterly, I have eaten my sorrows and spit them on the ground. Bitterly, I have stomped my feet and wrung my hands. Yet, Kimmerer stands in a long line of people who have stood up and said no, as the powerful squished her people, and stole their lands, and polluted their sacred spaces. Yet, here she is saying, "I choose joy over despair."

Fuck. That bad bitch is making me look bad. She is also a great writer, further making me look bad. Dammit. Now what?

Saturday morning told me what. I woke to Nic enthusiastically reminding me we had a No Kings Protests to attend. I vacillated all morning: I needed to make brunch, It was going to be hot, Last protest sucked, They talk too much, It doesn't matter, I am tired of speaking truth to power. But Nic was fired up. So, off we went on our bikes to the protest. 

Let's pause a moment here and discuss how bad of a protestor I am. I do not shout. I do not make signs. I show up. Saturday that was hard enough. Thankfully, my good friend, Wendy, also showed up. Together we marched and it was amazing. The most amazing part was a small girl, around five years old walking with her parents behind us. In a loud, clear voice she shouted, "Show me what Democracy looks like."

The crowd around us responded back resounding with enthusiasm, "THIS is what Democracy looks like!"

I peeked over my shoulder at this tiny person, with curls framing her face, and bright blue eyes asking us - the adults around her - to show her what our world is supposed to look like. She chanted again and again, leading us - the adults - with her courage, wonder, and hope for the future. Chills went up and down my spine, I was covered in goosebumps. Tears sprang into my eyes.

I realized, I must put my hands back into the earth and make myself whole again. 

The Onondaga People continue to work toward restoring their lands through their traditions of Thanksgiving. They have not been deterred by the injustice, genocide, destruction of their Sacred Lands.  I, too, must turn my face toward the future, shove my hands deeply back into the work, and this time offer Thanksgiving for the struggle. I must choose joy. Little people, lots of people, depend on me.

But, I do need to be more careful when taking the advice my therapist gives me.